Dreams
by Sandiane Carter
Summary: She can't seem to get him out of her mind.
1. Chapter 1

_Dreams, I have dreams _  
_When I'm awake, when I'm asleep_

Brandi Carlile, "Dreams"

* * *

He's in her bed.

That's usually how they start now. The dreams.

With Richard Castle in her bed, in various stages of undressing, but always that look in his eyes, hungry, wanting, so dark it burns a hole in her chest.

Tonight he's naked. She can feel his bare hip brushing hers as he hovers, his knee jostling hers, the smirk that slits his mouth open. His lips slant over her collarbone, so hot and wet, his tongue tracing patterns on her skin, and that's enough to have her arching against him, already dripping with need.

She moans, can't help it, a raw, pitiful sound that doesn't even feel like her voice, and his mouth closes over a breast, grazing the soft rise with his teeth before he licks, suckles at her skin.

"Castle," she breathes, pants, her fingers clawing on the sheets. Oh crap, crap, it's so good,_ he's so good_-

"Kate?"

His voice is a little off, too much surprise, too much wonder in it, but she can't exactly pay attention, not when his hand has drifted south, caressing the line of her hipbone before it stills between her legs.

"Please," she murmurs, desperate for him, for something, anything.

_Touch me._

"Kate," comes his voice again, but it's wrong, too close to her ear when he's really over there, watching her with his fingers brushing-

Her eyes open.

Her bedroom is dark, darker than it was in the dream, and it takes her a moment to get her bearings, separate reality from fiction. It doesn't help that Castle is, here too, lying at her side, their bodies tangled in the sheets, an impression of his knee at her inside thigh that sets her skin alight. Damn.

When she lifts her eyes to him, he's grinning, but it's more pleased little boy, less intent man. Although, when she looks closely, the intent man sure isn't far.

"You having erotic dreams about _me_, Beckett?" he asks, his voice low and oh, so delighted.

Fuck. Just that word in his mouth, _erotic_, and the dream plays again in front of her eyes, leaves her body aching.

"How do you know they're about you," she shoots back, and she would maybe regret it if he didn't look so cocky, so confident. Like nothing can get to him.

"Well, you were saying my name," he emphasizes, that annoying smile curling up his lips. "_Castle_," he mimics, breathy and high-pitched, and she doesn't care that he's so very good in bed - she smacks his chest. Hard.

Even that doesn't faze him. "Ohhh, bodily response," he points out smugly. "That really got to you, didn't it?"

She's going to _kill him_.

But just then he moves his knee against her thigh, just barely, the slightest shift, and damn, she can't help the startled gasp that escapes her mouth.

The light in his eyes changes, a swirl of dark arousal overcoming the dancing amusement from before, and he presses his lips to the corner of her mouth, slow and deliberate, a long tease.

"So tell me, Kate," he murmurs, the warm fan of his exhales pushing her eyelids shut. "What did I do in your dream?"

Oh. Oh, oh, oh-

He wants her to _tell_.

Her throat goes dry and her heart pounds, desire thick and hazy in her veins.

"You," she starts, has to clear her voice because it's so raw, already broken. "You licked my collarbone."

He immediately lowers his mouth and illustrates her words, and God, there's something so very intoxicating about having her dream come true, about it happening twice-

"And then?" he prompts, his head hovering at her chest, a dart of tongue to her bullet scar that makes her hips buck.

Crap, can't he just fuck her now? "You," she says, tries to remember, "had your mouth - over my breast-"

The onslaught of sensation when he follows her instructions is just too much, overwhelming; words and thought leave her, desert the ship until she's nothing more than shivering flesh.

It's exactly how it was in the dream, his teeth and then his lips, his tongue, only so much better, so much better, because now it's _real_.

She aches for more. "And then your fingers," she pants, impatient now, "your fingers between my legs, Castle-"

His thumb skids over her and she sobs out a curse, her whole body rising into his touch, crying for more. He teases her, slowly, and she can't find her voice to tell him she doesn't need teasing, that she's there already, she's been there, trembling at the edge for longer than he knows.

"Like that, Kate?" he whispers, his voice velvet, sliding over her skin. And he dips a finger into her, not deep, not enough, but still - she nods desperately, words coming out at last.

"Just like that, yes, Castle, _yes_..." The sound draws out forever as he pushes another finger in her, and another, works her so skillfully than in seconds she's already breaking apart against him, her body jerking into the firm circle of his arms, the gentling touch of his mouth.

Oh God, oh God.

Who needs dreams?

* * *

Of course, the dreams are not all about his hot body.

The night after her first day back at the 12th, they have dinner at her place and she makes love to him, slowly, the way he likes, everything careful and deliberate, every brush of her tongue and nip of her teeth earning a whimper from him. They fall asleep tangled together in the sheets, her mouth open at his shoulder, his hand cradling her hip.

But when she starts awake, it is full dark; it's the middle of the night and she just, she can't breathe.

The roof again.

It doesn't seem to matter that Maddox is dead, that she's struck her own deal with Bracken, that she's as safe as she can manage for now. Sometimes it all just - comes right out again.

It was Castle this time, dangling from the ledge. It was Castle and she tried to pull him up, oh God she_ tried_, but he was too heavy and her hands were slipping, her hands were-

She fists her left hand on the sheet and hunches forward, tries to get some air into her lungs. A low, keening sound vibrates in her throat, and she hears the rustle of sheets, feels the warmth of his hand at her back.

Great, so she's woken him.

"Kate," he murmurs, his lips ghosting her shoulder, and all breath rushes out of her again, a sob she can't contain. It's stupid, stupid; he's here, he's safe.

Only a dream.

She bites on her lower lip, hard, feels the way Castle's arms wrap around her, so gentle, her back cradled into his chest. She rests her head back against his, her temple at his cheek, drags a slow breath in as a lone tear trickles down her face.

"It's okay," he whispers, holding her close, his arms so strong at her waist. "I'm safe, Kate. Right here with you. Nothing's gonna happen to us."

She swallows the rest of her tears, turns her head so that her nose bumps into his jaw, so she can press a faint echo of a kiss to his neck.

"It was the roof again," she rasps, because he would never ask, and she wants him to know. "You were - hanging from the ledge, and I couldn't pull you up. I tried, but I couldn't."

He brings his hand up to her face, his palm brushing over her cheek, his thumb wiping the wet trail of the tear; she leans into it, touches her mouth to his skin.

"Just a dream," he promises, his lips at her forehead. "Maddox's dead, babe. We're safe."

Her mouth quirks and she's grateful, so grateful for this man, the way his words coax her out of her inner darkness.

"Not your babe, Rick Castle," she says darkly, baring her teeth against his palm.

A laugh startles out of his lips, ripples through his body, and she can see it come to life in his eyes, relief and arousal both, everything he wants to do to her. She shifts in his hold, putting her weight on her knee so she can pivot and face him, and then she opens her mouth at his, drinks him in, this wonderful, wonderful man who loves her so very much.

She runs a hand over his chest, feels the delicious flex of muscle under her fingertips, wraps her fingers around his neck as she breaks from his mouth.

"I love you," she tells him, the words coming from some place deep, rich and full and surprising even her. "Castle, I love you."

He looks back at her, his eyes bright and brimming, that amazing smile that slowly descends to his mouth; his hands cup her face.

"I know," he tells her, so soft, so tender. And then he kisses her again, a languid exploration of her mouth, lazy and wet, that barely-there tease of his tongue dancing against hers like-

-like they've got all the time in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

_For Laura  
who somehow manages to encourage me without ever pushing  
and knows where the story's going even when I don't.  
_

* * *

_And you, you are in my dreams_  
_You're underneath my skin_  
_Why am I so weak?_

Brandi Carlile, "Dreams"

* * *

It would be all right, she thinks, if the dreams would only leave her alone during the day.

Kate Beckett has a job to do, a reputation to maintain, a secret to keep.

A secret. Sometimes just the thought is enough to make her snicker. Really, what were they thinking?

They're surrounded by detectives all day, for God's sake. And it's not like she's exactly eager to tell Gates, of course not, but she thinks maybe, just maybe, the captain will not go as hard on them as she might have before. _I hope you feel that for me someday._

Victoria Gates seems, at any rate, to have finally accepted Castle's presence among them. That's got to be a step forward.

When Beckett comes back from the break room, a cup of coffee cradled in her hand, Castle is writing on the murder board. He's taken to doing that a lot more lately, and Kate doesn't know if it's conscious or not, if he's just more comfortable getting in her space now that their partnership has moved to a more...intimate level.

She probably wouldn't have noticed if it hadn't gotten her in trouble the other day. She was sitting at her desk, going through some files, while Castle hung the pictures of their third and fourth suspects on the board; when she raised her head, his ass happened to be just at eye-level.

And it's not like she can keep herself from looking, not when he has such a nice ass, not when she knows how the swell of it feels against her palm-

So, yeah, of course Esposito caught her looking and then she had to avert her eyes and keep her cool, but it didn't matter anyway - the boys already know something's up. She can see them spying on Castle and herself, whispering to each other when they think she can't hear.

Jeez, just yesterday, Rick handed her a coffee with that smile she loves, pressed lips and crinkled eyes, and she almost kissed him. Probably would have if he hadn't shot her a warning look and stepped back.

She's usually a lot smoother than that.

And it makes no sense, anyway. She was perfectly able to work with him for the last four years - she handled the sexual frustration just fine - and now that she's had him, now that she gets her fix every night, or close enough - she can't keep him out of her head?

It's ridiculous.

Silly, infuriating, adorable man.

Kate sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and moves closer, her eyes tracking the movements of his hand, quick little jerks as he jots down a theory in sloppy block letters, takes a step back to consider, then steps in again to erase the words.

She loves his hands, those broad fingers, how soft the skin feels inside his palms; she knows, firsthand now, what he can do with them. The brush of those hands over her inside thighs, the slow tease of his thumb, until he has her begging and still won't give in; the way he can make her come with just a finger, when he does that thing and curls-

"Are you...staring at Castle's hand?"

Ryan's voice tugs her out of it, a brutal reminder, and it's only her years of cop training that keep her from jumping at him.

But crap, her heart is pounding.

"You trying to get shot?" she asks dryly, spinning to find him standing at her back.

"You were staring at Castle's hand," he repeats, his blue eyes shrewd and delighted, clearly oblivious to the peril he's just escaped.

Beckett glares at him.

"No," she answers, emphasizing the sound. "I was-" she turns and strides to the murder board, wrenches the marker from Castle's hand while reaching for the eraser, "-looking at that terrible, terrible handwriting."

She wipes out what he wrote, sees from the corner of her eye the protest forming on his lips. Doesn't matter - actually, it's even better if he gets all indignant, because Ryan will buy it then.

"From now on, no more touching my murder board, Castle," she tells him sternly, poking his chest with the marker. "At least until you can learn to write better than a two-year-old."

Ryan gives a muffled chuckle behind her shoulder; Rick shoots him a look, but then cuts back his eyes to her, confused and maybe a little hurt - sometimes it's hard to tell with him, what's real and what's for show.

"So my theories are good enough for you, but not my handwriting?" he huffs, with that heightened sense of drama that he so obviously gets from his mother. "Fine then. I'm sure you'll be able to solve this case on your own, without my illuminating insight."

For a split second she's actually scared he will leave, make a grand exit and abandon her side. But he only flops into his chair, his back deliberately turned to her, chin held high to indicate that the pouting has begun; Kate has to press her lips together to keep from laughing.

Okay, so she really _does_love him.

And she'll have to make it up to him somehow.

But this is neither the time nor the place, so she swallows it all down, shifts to present to Ryan her usual commanding face.

"So. You only here to stare at Castle, or you've actually got something for me?"

He stammers an answer, fumbles with the documents he wanted to show her, and Kate watches with a satisfied little smile. That's the great thing with Ryan; he's so much easier to get at than Esposito.

But he's still a detective, and damn, she's really got to be more careful than that.

Next time it might not be so easy to distract him.

* * *

She's not exactly keen on telling Castle the truth; in fact, she'd much rather do without. But although he seemed to have forgotten about it this afternoon, when he and the guys were teasing back and forth and _she_was doing all the work, tonight he's adamant that she tell him what the whole murder board episode was all about.

By the time they reach her apartment, her repeated denials have him sulking and refusing to engage in any other kind of conversation; Kate sighs, relents.

And immediately regrets it.

"My hands, huh?" he says smugly as she closes the door behind them. He gives her that look that is, unfortunately, as hot as it is irritating. "The great Kate Beckett was fantasizing about my hands in the middle of the precinct."

"Shut up," she hisses, willing the blush to creep back down her neck as she follows him inside, kicks her shoes off.

"Oh, no," he grins, shedding his own coat. "No way. This is much too good."

His eyes are that deep, sparkling blue that she's defenseless against; her fingers suddenly grow clumsy, tripping over the buttons of her coat.

"So tell me, detective," he says, his voice dropping to that low, inviting rasp. "Are there any other...parts of me that featured in your dreams today?"

Oh, he thinks this is funny. She narrows her eyes at him, even if she can't help the flare of arousal deep in her belly, and takes a menacing step closer. Part of her wants to just cop a feel through his pants, the way she did that first time in the precinct's elevator, but no - no, it would be giving him what he wants.

And she has a better idea.

"Don't you want to know, first," she murmurs slowly, resting a light hand over his chest, "what it is that I love so much about your hands?"

She raises his eyes to see him swallowing heavily, and she grins darkly, trails her fingers down. His abs tighten under her touch, but she abandons his stomach, reaches for his right hand instead.

She brings it up against her mouth, taking her time, savoring the way his eyes widen. Uh-huh. That's what you get, Castle.

"I love," she murmurs, feathering her mouth over his knuckles, "how big your hands are. Big and strong." She almost slips into her Russian accent, has to hide her smile behind his palm.

"Yeah?" he breathes, and just that one syllable is enough for her to know exactly how turned-on he is right now.

There's also an honesty, a vulnerability to his voice that catches her by surprise, makes her want to stop playing.

Almost.

"Yeah," she answers, turning his hand between hers to expose his palm. "And I love how soft your skin is, just here-" she presses a kiss to the line in the middle, the heart line, right? "-and here," she sighs, pushes her mouth to the heel of his hand.

She thinks she can feel him shake against her.

"I love your fingers," she continues, relentless now. "I love that they're so broad, so much so that they don't really fit with mine, and yet the way you move them - over me, inside me-"

His eyes are closed now, his mouth open, those sexy little huffs of breath, almost whines, falling from him unimpeded.

Kate parts her lips and takes his index finger in her mouth, swirls her tongue around it. She can feel Castle's deep growl as much as she hears it, and shit - it's hot.

"Maybe it's all that writing," she suggests quietly when she finally lets go of his finger. "The typing. Maybe that's why your fingers are so - strong, and wicked."

She bares her teeth at the back of his hand, grazing that fragile skin, and he's so close now - when has he gotten so close? - that she can feel the fierce buck of his hips against hers.

"Kate," he grunts, and it's not a question, not a plea.

Her hands are suddenly knocked off and he demonstrates the dexterity she's just praised by unbuttoning her coat, and then her shirt, at a devastating speed. When he presses his palms to her bare skin, she almost cries out at the heat that radiates from him.

He crushes her to him, his mouth savage when it finds hers, and she wraps herself around him; her legs go around his waist and that's clearly the only signal he needed to stride to her bedroom.

He deposits her on the bed and finishes to undress her. She helps by lifting what needs to be lifted, her body undulating at his touch; she unhooks the clasp of her bra herself, moans when his mouth runs over the slope of a breast.

And when she's completely naked, he straightens to encompass her in a dark, hungry look, and smirks.

"Now can I write on your board, detective?" he asks, entirely too smug, fingertips teasing her inside thigh.

Fuck. She closes her eyes, has to drag the word out of her throat.

"Yes," she says, pleased at how strong, how sure she sounds. She meets his eyes, sees it reflected on his face, that surprise mixed with delight and pure want - so good how he wants her.

"Yes, Castle. Touch me."


	3. Chapter 3

He stops writing on the murder board, not because she asked him, but because every time he so much as glances at the thing he sees Kate lying naked on her bed, her pale skin and expectant eyes glowing in the darkness.

It helps. At first.

But there are always moments when he turns and finds her watching him, and he immediately knows. It's not obvious to anyone but him - at least, he hopes not - because she's got a pretty great poker face still; it's an imperceptible something in her eyes, a touch of softness where before there was only steel.

The faintest lift to the line of her mouth.

It takes so little to unmake him.

He tells himself _N__ot at the precinct, not at the precinct_, forces his hands to uncurl in his pockets, breathes deep and looks away.

But then there's this day when an arrest nearly goes wrong, where a bullet ricochets on the wall, so close, just _so close_ to Kate's head, and his heart stops, paralyzed with anguish and what ifs scenarios.

The vest only protects her chest. The vest only protects her heart and lungs and what if, what if that bullet had been aimed a little better, what if-

He clenches his teeth and keeps it together, although he knows his face must be bloodless, and the only thing he can hear is the wild pound of blood in his ears. Kate has it under control, every inch of her so completely Beckett that she doesn't even flinch before she chases down their suspect - least he can do is not make a scene.

He manages to do that through the actual arrest; he holds himself back as Esposito snaps the cuffs around the bastard's wrists, stays quiet while Kate drives them back to the 12th.

Following her directives, isn't he? For what must be the first time ever. Staying back, making himself scarce.

She doesn't seem as appreciative as he'd have hoped.

He watches her hands on the wheel, the firm set of her fingers, the skin that he knows to be so soft; it's enough to keep his mind settled for now, keep him from continuously going over what didn't happen, what might've happened.

Esposito and Ryan take the last free parking space outside the precinct, so Kate has to park the Crown Vic in the underground garage. Castle is grateful for it, those few minutes they get to themselves - thank god the boys took the suspect with them.

Esposito must have seen the murderous looks Castle was throwing the man.

Beckett turns off the engine and slides out of the car, her brush with death obviously not impairing her natural grace, and he can only scramble after her.

"Kate-"

She must hear something in his voice, or maybe she's feeling it too, maybe she's just better at covering it up, because suddenly she spins on her heels and it's all there on her face, everything his heart's been struggling with for the last forty minutes.

She swallows, her hands curling over thin air as if she's keeping herself from reaching for him, but her fingers won't listen.

"Not here," she murmurs, glancing around at hypothetical witnesses.

She gives a sharp little jerk of her head and then he's following her up the stairs, into a corridor, into a storage closet, quickening his pace to keep up with her. His heart is a trembling thing in his throat, threatens to spill out every time he breathes too deep.

Kate closes the door behind them. He can see her hands tremble as she flips the lock; when she turns to him her face is pale and calm, and her eyes are drowning.

She crashes into him, her nose buried against his neck, her arms tight cords around his chest. The haunting fragrance of her hair surrounds him, soothes him, swallows him whole; he will never tell her she's squeezing too tight.

She takes broken breaths at his collarbone, and he cannot help but wonder which one is real. Who's the real Kate? The woman at the scene who did what she had to do, didn't spare so much as a glance to him, only asked if he was okay before she went after the man with the gun? Or this one, the slim figure who shakes in his arms, who sounds like she's suffocating under the weight of it all?

It's a silly thought, of course. If he wasn't so confused himself, so terrified at the idea of losing her, he'd recognize this for what it is, her formidable faculty to compartmentalize, to keep the Kate out of her Beckett persona.

He'd realize he's screwing it up for her right now.

But he can't. He's selfish, and he's scared, and he needs her badly, needs this. Her body so close that he can feel all her angles and planes meeting his, the brush of her mouth at his jaw, the reassuring smell that tells him she's alive.

"Kate," he whispers again, because it's the only thing that will come out of his mouth. Her name, a plea, a prayer, a promise - all at once.

Her eyes lift to him, glittering diamonds under her eyelashes. Her breathing is easier now, like she's gathering herself, going to sever their connection; he can't let her do that. He needs more, he needs-

His mouth is on hers before he can finish that thought, hard and relentless, taking what she will not give. She resists for a second, maybe two, before the barrier of her lips breaks open for him; she hums his name around his tongue, her body fluid, pliant against his.

He pushes her into the shelves, helps her hoist her ass onto an empty one. Her hips rock frenetically into his, her mouth open, her hands clawing at his sides; he fumbles with her shirt, gives up, focuses on the buttons of her jeans instead.

Buttons, seriously? Who even puts buttons on jeans anymore? Isn't there like a law or something, requiring it to be a zipper?

And when, oh when did his fingers get so fat-

"Hurry," she pants in his ear, so not helping. "Castle, oh please, oh..."

Fuck, fuck, she cannot make these kinds of noises if she wants him to get into her pants. He grunts in relief when the first button gives under his hands, the second one quick to follow after that, and oh, hey, look at that - he's in.

He slips his fingers against her panties, feels the irresistible throb of her, the heat that radiates; he curls his middle finger inside, teases her roughly.

She arches off the shelf, her hips sharply rising into his, a growl vibrating on her lips.

"Castle, no," she begs, but even as she does her body's undulating at his fingertips, craving for more. "No - don't - _oh_ - I don't, oh, you _please_-"

Shit, he loves it when she's incoherent.

But he knows she has a point - they're in a freaking supply closet, in the damn precinct, and no matter how much he wants to take his time with her, the faster they're out of here, the better.

So he reaches down for his own zipper - he was smart enough in his own choice of pants, thank you very much - impatiently pushes said pants off his hips, as far as they will go, anyway. Far enough.

Kate has dropped her legs from his waist to make it easier for him, is struggling with her fitted jeans when he looks back at her; he helps as much as he can, yanks the fabric down before gathering her up again.

Her mouth is dark red, lovely and ripe - opens so easily under his. He swallows her breath, slips a hand under her shirt, savors the tight curve of her body around him.

"Castle," she urges, biting at his lip, hand fisting at his bicep.

He grins and presses into her, slowly, reclaims her from the danger, the death, everything her job is. _You're mine_, he says with each thrust, and from the desperate way she grips him, the sounds she makes, she doesn't seem to mind.

He knows sometimes she likes it rough, so he pushes, curious to see just how much she can take; he has her teetering at the edge in no time, so hot and tight against him. He slows down just because he wants to see that look on her face, her knitted brow when she's so close, and right when he sinks back into her, the door shakes behind them.

Her eyes snap open, wide and dark and scared, but her body's already contracting around his, nothing she can do to stop it - she comes, her lips parted around sounds she won't let out, and the way she tries to hold still, the contrast between her furiously working inner muscles and her taut, shivering skin - it might be the hottest thing he's ever seen.

It does him in, sucks his pleasure right out of him, and he has to bow over her and bite at her clothed shoulder to quiet his own release, some of those raw sobs coming out anyway as his pelvis jerks into hers.

"Is someone in there?" a feminine voice asks from the corridor, having obviously failed to pull the door open.

He holds his breath, his cheeks brushing Kate's, feels her mirroring effort not to be heard. Holy shit, they're so screwed-

"Hello?" the voice insists, not someone he knows, he thinks. The doorknob protests when the person tries to turn it again.

He feels Kate's fingers at his neck, her light touch against his sweat-soaked skin. It seems absurd in such a terrible situation, and yet it still somehow manages to ease his heart.

There's a loud sigh on the other side of the door, some muttered cursing that he can only hear snippets of.

"Hey, Charlie!" the voice suddenly calls.

Oh, damn, damn. _Just go away, people._

A male voice answers, the words muffled, incomprehensible.

"You have any idea why this stupid door is locked?"

The doorknob gets manhandled once again, but thank god, thank god, it doesn't yield.

"Shouldn't be," the man says. "Maybe one of the cleaning ladies made a mistake."

"Great," the woman says, heavy on sarcasm. "And now how am I supposed to get my staples? Does anyone even have the key to this room?"

"Surely someone has them. Captain must have all the keys to the place, don't ya think? I can go ask him, if you want."

"And what, I'll wait here? That's stupid. You go back to work; I'll ask him."

Their footsteps move away, vanishing in the distance; Castle sucks in a breath, cannot believe their luck.

"What floor are we on?" he murmurs in Kate's ear, not daring to move until all sound has receded.

"Vice," she answers in the same way, her hand slipping off his neck. "Come on, let me go. We don't have much time."

He pushes himself off the shelf and out of her; her eyes flutter shut at the intimate contact and a moan falls from her mouth, body shivering around his.

He quickly straightens out, feels a blush burn at his neck as he zips his pants back up. When he turns Kate is attempting to make herself look presentable, her eyes heated on his, and it would maybe be okay if her hair didn't scream sex so very, very loudly.

"Castle," she murmurs, her voice urgent, her fingers waving from him to the door. "Let's get out of here. You first."

Great. Okay. Okay.

He takes a deep breath, curls his hand around the knob, and turns it carefully. Oh, he forgot to unlock the door. He flips the bolt, hears Kate's impatient sigh at his back, cracks the door open.

The corridor seems clear.

He slips out as discreetly as he can, walks calmly to the stairs, his shoulders slumping with relief when he's safely hidden behind the swing door. Kate joins him seconds later, her mouth pursed and her body stiff with tension.

"Don't stay here," she orders quietly, starts moving up the stairs.

He follows her, his heart still pounding, and not in a good way.

Shit, what would've happened if those people had managed to open the door? If the woman had kept guard in front of the room while her co-worker went and asked Gates for the key?

Oh, man.

No more of this, he tells himself sternly, his eyes on Kate's taut back as he climbs the steps after her. This is her job, the job she excels at, the job she's respected and admired for.

He's the biggest asshole on the planet if he ruins it for her.


	4. Chapter 4

After that day when Castle and Beckett take forever to make it back to the bullpen from the underground garage - their excuse is that the automatic door wouldn't open at first, but somehow nobody else seemed to have encountered that issue - Esposito keeps a close watch on the two of them.

But if they really are dating, they're doing a damn fine job of hiding it. They never arrive at the precinct together; when they do leave at the same time, either they're all going for drinks or Castle and Beckett part in the lobby (Esposito may or may not have been using the precinct security cameras to find out).

And from that moment he starts paying attention for real, it seems all the things he and Ryan have noticed - the looks, the lingering touches - suddenly vanish. Gone in the space of one night.

Esposito's tempted to think _break-up_, but that's not the vibe he's getting at all. Castle keeps showing up every day, bearing the customary cups of coffee, and Beckett always smiles when she thanks him_._ And that theory-building thing they've got going - it works better than ever.

It's just... The tension that existed before, the physical electricity that made every cop at the 12th super aware of those two - that's disappeared. They're so comfortable now, so blatantly "just friends," that they _have _to be sleeping together.

They just have to.

But there's nothing to prove it.

Weeks go by; life happens. One of their arrests ends up with Ryan and the suspect tumbling down a flight of stairs, resulting in a twisted ankle for Kevin and a broken arm for the perp.

Ryan is banished from the precinct for a couple days (Gates manages to make him turn around with her mere glare the one time he tries to show up), and so he doesn't get to witness what Esposito does.

The suspect's wife comes in for an interview the next afternoon; she's young, only twenty-five, with a blond little girl wrapped around her leg.

"My baby-sitter cancelled on me," she apologizes in a murmur, her eyes to the floor.

Of course Castle offers to take care of the child while Beckett and Javier question the shy woman - nothing surprising in that. Esposito sees him from the conference room, spreading blank sheets and colored pens over Beckett's desk (where the hell did he find those?) and making faces for the little girl; honestly, the man's ridiculous.

But the female half of the precinct seems to be falling for it. Beckett included.

It's not obvious at first. His boss is being her usual self, cool and collected, asking clever, precise questions from the young mother, Lila. On a few occasions, she asks for a repeat, but Esposito himself is taking notes, not really paying attention.

At the end of the interview, though, it's become clear that she's distracted. She keeps losing her focus, her gaze straying towards the glass panel that opens onto the bullpen, and Javier is the one to shake Lila's hand, thank her for coming to them.

When he turns to Beckett, his mouth parted on a wry comment, the words never make it out.

She's watching Castle, who's still sitting next to the child, smiling and saying something they can't hear, and her face-

Her face is more open than he's ever seen.

Radiant. Her eyes are bright, something like _longing_ in her parted mouth, and she looks-

in love.

She's in love with Castle.

Javier thought he knew that - the whole precinct did, really - so it shouldn't be that much of a surprise. Except. He didn't know a thing, did he?

Looking at her expression now, struck silent by this glowing Kate who might be more amazingly hot now that she's ever been, he sees the truth, the strength of this thing she has with Castle. And he can't say a thing.

He just can't.

In the bullpen, Lila's opened her arms wide for her daughter, and she exchanges a few words with Castle before heading for the elevator. The spell is broken, and when Beckett turns to Esposito, she's a detective again, all business, her face under control.

"What did you make of her?" she asks, and Javier slips back into his own self just as easily, gives her the answer she's waiting for.

But not even the case can make him forget what he's seen.

* * *

When they get home that night, Kate's hands are on him the moment Castle closes the door, smooth and urgent and seeking, her eyes dark as she snatches his mouth with hers.

He moans into her mouth, somehow manages to utter the words, "Kate, my mother-"

"Don't you listen?" she murmurs, moving onto his neck now, a little flick of her tongue that has him shivering. "Martha said at breakfast she wouldn't be here tonight."

Shock swallows his answer when he feels the heavy press of her body into his, the heat of her parting thighs, devastating. His eyes slide shut, and he remembers to use his hands, hooks two fingers at her waist, where the skin is so soft.

Whatever he did - whatever it was that got her like this, tight and desperate and nearly climbing up his body, she needs to tell him what it was. He needs to know.

He'll do it every single day.

"Kate-" he pants, hips rising into her eager touch, the thrumming cove of her body.

"Shut up," she orders, ripping - _ripping_ - the top buttons of his shirt open so she can press her lips to his chest, her pelvis endlessly rolling against his. Shit, she feels so good.

He shuts up.

* * *

"What did I do?" he hums later, fingers drifting over her warm skin.

The night pours in through his windows, moonbeams catching on Kate's hair, limning the soft, sated smile on her face.

Sometimes he just feels so damn lucky.

She turns her head to kiss the skin above his nipple, a faint caress, the arm she has thrown around his chest squeezing gently, and if he didn't know any better he'd say she's avoiding his question.

"You're just...you," she says evasively, and yeah, he's right.

She doesn't want to answer him.

Hmm. This has got to be good. Is she ashamed?

"I've been me for the past four months," he points out, grinning a little because he can't help it - this is what Kate Beckett does to him. "I don't recall you wanting me so badly that you had to jump me at the door."

Her fingernails dig into his side - probably punishment for calling her wanting - and there's the nip of teeth at his shoulder, entirely too hot considering what they just did, and how thoroughly exhausted he is.

"Maybe I was just better at hiding it," she tells him, her smile brushing at his skin.

He's not buying it. He must have done something; he will harass her until he knows what.

Or-

Or he could use the timeline. _Use your brain, Castle._

What did he do today that was different from yesterday? He brought her coffee, as per usual, and then they worked on closing that case - caught the killer before they went home. But it's not like that's the first time either. And he wasn't even involved in building the theory that led them to that guy - she did that with Esposito after questioning the young mother-

Oh.

Really?

Kate's nuzzling at his shoulder, rubbing her nose to his skin in that adorable way she only does when she's very tired, about to fall asleep. This might be his chance.

"Does it have to do anything with me watching that little girl?" he asks, his voice very quiet, lips only inches away from her hair.

She sighs, and he feels her smile again, sleepy and beautiful. "Mm, you were adorable," she mumbles, and his heart does that silly little stutter, breath catching in his chest.

She'll never stop surprising him.

"Yeah?" he nudges, can't believe Kate Beckett would actually fall for that old stereotype. The guy who gets along with kids.

"Uh-huh," she says, mouth open at his skin. "She was all shy and quiet, but by the end you had her giggling. And you didn't even care how silly you looked. You just - went out of your way to make her laugh. You have any idea how sexy that is, Castle?"

"Well, clearly I didn't," he chuckles, a little bewildered at the unchecked love in her voice, all that gorgeous tenderness that just spills out of her, wraps around him. "But um, I'll make sure to hang out with kids as often as I can, if this is what I get."

He skims his hand down to the curve of her ass, squeezing a little, and she laughs sleepily, yawns through it.

"You do that," she murmurs, before slipping right into sleep.

He spends the rest of the night dreaming of a little girl with Kate's large green eyes, who runs towards him with her arms open and calls him _Daddy._

* * *

The morning Ryan comes back to work, the first thing Esposito does is share with his partner what he's seen, and the conclusion he's come to. That's what partners do, right? They share. They work together towards a common goal, coordinate their efforts, all that crap.

So he's slightly disappointed that all he gets for his troubles is to be called a closeted romantic. Ryan smirks at him after his little comment - _Aw, Javier, I had no idea you had such a big, sappy heart_ - and it takes a lot of self-control to keep from actually smacking him.

"You'd believe me if you'd seen her," Esposito mutters, irritated at his partner's incredulity. Frustration gnaws at him and he turns to his desk again, pretends to be absorbed in work.

Stupid of him, because Ryan can't take a hint.

"Look," he insists, grabbing Javier's chair and rolling it back next to his. "I'm not saying I don't believe you. It's just this kind of thing, you know? It's the kind that...you need to see for yourself. Otherwise it's just too crazy. Kinda like - if I was telling you I'd seen a flying pig. You'd never believe me, until you'd witnessed it yourself."

Esposito turns his head slowly, stares at Kevin. "When pigs fly, bro? That's what you're going with?"

Ryan scratches his neck, nearly blushes. "Well-"

The doors of the elevator glide open and both detectives look up to see Beckett and her writing partner step out, cradling coffees and apparently deep in conversation.

"Hey, here comes your mentor," Javier smirks, resting his back against his chair. "A flying pig. Maybe _he _would like that comparison.

"Hey, I was just trying to make a point-" Ryan starts defensively, but then he shuts up the moment Beckett's eyes land on them, a graceful eyebrow arching.

"Hey guys. What's up?"

"Nothing," they chorus, which of course makes them look completely guilty.

Beckett looks like she's holding back a smile. "Really. Well, you guys are, you know. At the same desk."

Stupid Ryan.

"Yeah," Esposito says, trying to sound cool, no big deal. "We were just, uh..."

"Chatting," Kevin pipes in, coming to the rescue. "Just, you know. Morning chat. Nothing that interesting," he finishes with a little wave, Castle-style.

"Aww," Castle joins in, taking a sip of his coffee. "You guys are adorable. Aren't they adorable, Beckett?"

Kate rolls her eyes, clearly not convinced, and goes back to her desk.

"If you were strays, I would totally take you in," the writer adds, _sotto voce_ - like that's supposed to be comforting - before he follows her.

Esposito stares, considers throwing a pen at Rick Castle.

Instead he shakes his head, gives a look to Ryan as he wheels himself back to his desk.

This is not going to be a good day.


End file.
